


Maybe a Merry Christmas

by vogue91



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, F/M, First War with Voldemort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt, Introspection, M/M, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Mother-Son Relationship, POV First Person, Ugly Holiday Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 17:31:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13745853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vogue91/pseuds/vogue91
Summary: Various Christmas drabbles.





	Maybe a Merry Christmas

_ Only the Snow _

There’s snow.

White, slow, silent.

I like it.

It’s Christmas, but the only sign of it it’s the snow. For there are no wishes, no presents, no celebrations.

Just plots, whispers, uncertainties. And I’m in the middle of it.

Vince and I are looking for our place in all of this, but we can never understand what we’re doing. We follow Draco, certain that it will lead us somewhere, but we keep still, too stupid for explanations.

I remember when every day was like the one before, and somehow we liked it.

Now, there’s only snow.

Merry Christmas to me.

 

_ Last Christmas _

Maybe there won’t be a next Christmas.

And maybe I should use these moments, try to get the best of them, to reach the apex of my life before the end.

But I feel empty. I’ve painted a smile on my face, to give to all those that expect it.

I watch the walls around me, soaked in a strange feeling of doom, as if I knew I’m not going to live long.

It’s Christmas, and it should be reason for joy.

A joy that has been slowly stolen from me, torn off my soul without grace, a joy perished with those decisions I couldn’t make.

Merry Christmas to me.

 

_ Not Good _

_“At Christmas, we’re all better, Tom.”_

That’s what that filthy Muggle at the orphanage used to tell me, with that scared look that I enjoyed seeing on her face.

So I’ve heard in the following years, from all those fools trying to teach me things I didn’t want to learn.

The voices changed, the fear stayed the same.

At Christmas, _they’re_ better.

And while decorations, presents and smiles are wasted, I go on, as if it’s a day like any other.

A day where I keep laughing of them, thinking about the time they’ll finally die of their own goodness.

Merry Christmas to you. Enjoy it, till you have something to celebrate.

 

_ Smile Again _

You will smile, I used to say to myself.

You will remember you’ve got a family, that not all is lost, that time will stop to grant you your hour of freedom.

They were all broken promises, as I realised when I rested my gaze on my son’s eyes, gaunt, circled, off, just like Lucius’.

Christmas had a different taste. And yet, we still sat at a table, pretending that all was going well, that we weren’t at the edge of the abyss.

Until we kept pretending, it was a sign that we hadn’t given in, that we could still put an end to the massacre of our illusions.

“Merry Christmas.” I whispered, with a fake smile, but still soaked in hope.

 

_ Six Sweaters _

“Thank you, mom.” my voice is laconic, as it is every year. I put aside my sweater, of an indefinite off-grey, and I watch the others’ presents.

It’s just six sweaters this year.

And today, in this morning cold and strangely sunny, we seem to realise for the first time that he isn’t here.

I look at George, and I expect him to mock me for my present, as tradition goes.

But there’s no tradition anymore, without the person that has consolidated it.

We all smile, but on our smiles rest his shadow, relentless.

Merry Christmas, Fred.

 

_ No War at Christmas _

There’s a war out there.

That night was peaceful, and yet it seemed like I could still hear the echo of agonizing screams.

Innocent.

I close my eyes, I sigh.

When I open them again, it’s like the world around me doesn’t exist anymore, like the universe was enclosed in these walls.

A child with her hair of a vague nuance of lilac stares surprised at her presents.

A man smiles to her, and it’s the only thing I can see.

Christmas is a family holiday, and I’ve learnt that now.

Ted gets closer, putting an arm around my shoulders.

“Merry Christmas.” he whispers, and I smile. There’s no war or regret to ruin my happiness. Not today.

 

_ Feels Like Home _

I open my eyes and I look around.

That house is weird.

Or maybe it’s just that it’s not my house, and that for the first time I’m not spending Christmas with dad.

I hope he’s okay. When we’ll both be back home, I think we’ll celebrate. He’ll let me see the Horn, and we’ll spend a nice day together.

I open a drawer, and take a picture.

“It’ll be alright.” I say to mom, who smiles and nods, waving her dirty-blond hair, so similar to mine.

I’ve still got her, and until she keeps smiling from that picture worn out by the years, I know I can be glad, even though I’m not home.

“Merry Christmas, mom.” she can’t answer, but her smile is still the best present she can give me.

 

_ Everyday _

_Dear Moony..._

I snort. I’ll never get used to that ‘dear’.

It doesn’t suit me, it never did, and I don’t know what’s happening to me now. Maybe I become a different person among these walls.

Or perhaps is true that Christmas spirit makes miracles, even on me.

I put down the quill and I sigh.

What should I even tell him?

That Christmas is not the same if I’m away from them? From him?

 _I miss you_. And it’s true. But seeing it written, who knows why, makes the absence even sharper.

 _Merry Christmas, Remus_. I rip the parchment, angry, and I stand up.

It’s not really a holiday, if I can’t have him here with me.

One day I’ll escape from here, and then it will be Christmas every day.

 

_ A Cold Christmas _

Too many times.

Too many times I’ve walked this hallway, without really wanting to do it, too many times I’ve thought about turning around and starting to run, too many times I’ve lacked the courage to do it.

I enter the room, taking a deep breath.

Christmas should’ve meant warmth, affection, happiness.

And I’m in front of cold lights, with a smile that can’t be born, facing two people laying on beds too small.

Two shells.

These are my holidays, this is the proof of my cowardice, which at times makes me wish I never have to see their empty eyes again, that I can stay at the castle, pretending they’re home, waiting for me.

But I keep quiet, because I know that pretending doesn’t erase reality.

“Merry Christmas, mom.” I murmur. She raises her eyes on me, but it’s like I’m see-through.

She doesn’t answer. She never will.

 

_ Want to Run Away _

For some people, snow means happiness.

It means holidays, it means partying, it means playing.

To me, snow it’s just a sharper cold than usual, worming its way in the folds of my too large robes, to reach the flesh, the bones.

And in order to get some protection, I’ve become ice myself.

The air smells like burnt wood, an echo of childish laughs, the Christmas atmosphere that can be almost touched.

I wish I could pretend to go into the wrong house, and sneak in another family. But then I hear his voice, like a grim call, and  I go in.

A tree, with no presents.

A fireplace, without flames.

A woman. She cries.

I stay still for a few moments, then I turn so that I won’t have to look at her.

“Merry Christmas.” but I’m talking to the emptiness in front of me.

 

_ Nobody’s Christmas _

Merry Christmas.

The Christmas of defeat.

The Christmas of inexistent smiles, the Christmas of shame, of who still got a high price to pay.

The Christmas of us all, we who have chosen the wrong side, and when we realised it we couldn’t to a thing to change our fates.

The Christmas of who today thinks about the death on his conscience.

And I think about Vincent, that poor idiot that hasn’t lived enough to see the ruin of this holiday, today completely useless.

I think about him and all those corpses that were nothing but mud for me.

The Mark doesn’t burn anymore. And yet, it’s like I feel my arm heavier.

“Merry Christmas.” I say, in a chocked whisper.

But there’s no one left to hear me.

 

_ What’s Being a Family? _

It’s a strange feeling.

Christmas is a family holiday, and I got used to that.

Just, I still hadn’t understood the slight difference between being part of a family and _being_ a family.

I look around, and my senses are stricken by the warmth of the fireplace, by the smell of the food cooking in the oven, by the noise of the see, soundtrack to this imperfect Christmas, but the best I could’ve wished for.

The best, for to crown it all, my husband is in front of me, his disfigured face lightened with a smile which makes me forget everything.

For one night, there will be no war, there won’t be wounds to mend nor deaths to cry.

Now, for the first time, I know I’m Mrs. Weasley, and this makes me oblivious to all that happens outside the walls of _our_ home.

“Merry Christmas.” I tell Bill, smiling. And, I know for sure, it will be.  


End file.
